


June Bride

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Attempted Seduction, Crossdressing, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin's attempt to seduce his brother doesn't go as he intended - it goes much better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	June Bride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> I hope I did your wonderful prompt justice.

The idea came to him when he heard that Fëanáro had become _meaningfully close_ , as the Palace maids whispered among themselves, to the daughter of his own mentor among the servants of Aulë. The gossip – a part of Ñolofinwë refused to give any credence to the news – filled him with jealousy and bitterness, but also gave him a glimmer of hope. It made perfect sense for Fëanáro to be close to a woman, and to want to marry one: he did get along better with women than he did with men (save, of course, Ñolofinwë's own mother). He spent time with Findis too whenever he was in Tirion, and sometimes they even went for long walks in the gardens or out of the town walls together. 

Fëanáro never spent more than a handful of minutes alone with Ñolofinwë if he could avoid it. 

As a child, Ñolofinwë's desire to be with him stemmed from a neglected brother's feelings. But now that he was only five years shy of his majority the feelings which drew him to his brother were stronger than brotherly affection, and quite different from it.

If Fëanáro favoured women, he would be one, if for a short while, and then maybe Fëanáro would like him more, or at least realise how much Ñolofinwë cared for him that he would go to such lengths for him. 

He didn't have a definite plan – it was hard to make plans when Fëanáro could be there one day and off on a journey the next – but he started making preparations. He borrowed one of Findis's outfits, sneaking into her room while Findis was visiting a friend, a fellow enthusiast of the art of folding paper. It was unlikely she would notice. He hadn't seen her wear that skirt and blouse in a very long time, and she constantly received new outfits.

Skirt and blouse and undershirt were all pure silk, in shades of blue, hand-painted in silver and decorated with pale golden embroidery along the hems. 

Ñolofinwë took them to his own bedroom and hid it at the bottom of a chest there, under mantles and capes, and waited patiently. His wait lasted until after the New Year, when the court and most of the inhabitants of Tirion left the town to greet the coming of spring in the forests and meadows surrounding it. Ñolofinwë declined to go watch the blooming almond trees with his family, and gave leave to his own servants to follow the court. 

Fëanáro didn't join the party either, as was his wont. Besides, Findis and he had already visited the valley where the almond trees grew. Ñolofinwë spied them from the window of his room, his nails trying to dig into the glass of the pane as he watched Findis walk on Fëanáro's arm and Fëanáro laugh at whatever she was saying.

The court left in the early morning, and the common folks did likewise. Tirion could have been a ghost town, but from the open window in the long gallery overlooking the courtyard at the back of the palace, Ñolofinwë could hear the sound of hammering coming from the forge. 

He spent the whole morning in the gallery, listening to the harsh but soothing sounds of his brother at work. Lunchtime passed, afternoon wore on and when Laurelin began to wane, Ñolofinwë dug Findis's clothes out of the chest. After bathing, he donned the plain undershirt first, which was a shade darker than the blouse. It fit him with surprising perfection. His chest was wider than Findis's and that made up for the lack of breasts. The blouse proper too fastened in the middle of his chest without sagging, the fabric pulled taut around his sides. The skirt was a little too long for him – he was yet to grow to his full height – and thus the upturned tip of the shoes he put on for last barely peeked out of its hem. 

He twisted his dark brown hair in a single large braid which he wrapped around his neck once, letting it dangle over his chest, and painted his lips with a generous – if somewhat messy – swipe of the rouge he had filched from the supply meant for his mother's handmaidens. He smacked his lips together and gave himself an encouraging smile in the mirror.

The skirt fluttered about his legs as he sauntered down the corridors, holding the garment up and jumping into the puddles of warm, dark-golden light which streamed down from the large windows to pretend he wasn't agitated. He stood waiting at the foot of the winding staircase that led to the gate at the back of the palace, partially hiding in the shade it cast.

The day wore on, and there was no trace of Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë started fearing that he might spend the whole night in the workshops as he sometimes did, oblivious to the outer world.

Only when the light had uniformly dimmed, he heard the thudding of footsteps, rapidly getting closer. He stood perfectly still, straining his ears and ready to dart away if necessary, until he recognised the cadence of his brother's gait, rapid and firm as his hammering. Fëanáro walked in and Ñolofinwë saw him frown when he spotted him. His stride didn't change, however.

Ñolofinwë bowed his head and tried to retreat under the stairwell as he approached. 

“Lady?” he said, and when Ñolofinwë didn't reply added, “is something amiss?”

He came closer.

“Findis?”

Ñolofinwë clasped his hands together. He had gone over the simple sentence he would use to address his brother a hundred times, but now he could get not a single one of those words out.

Fëanáro stopped right in front of him and looked him over, then put a hand under his chin and forced him to raise his head. 

Their gazes met.

“F – Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë stuttered feebly in place of the _'it is a pleasant afternoon, is it not, my Lord?'_ he had been practicing from the morning.

Fëanáro quirked one eyebrow. Recognition flashed in his eyes, together with something Ñolofinwë couldn't quite identify. The world stood perfectly still, except for Ñolofinwë's heart, which decided to fling itself madly against his ribcage. Fëanáro stared at him. He used his hold on his chin to turn his head to the side. His gaze burned down the curve of his jaw, his thumb crept up his chin and almost brushed the corner of his painted lips. Ñolofinwë became quite sure he would be rejected.

“Lady,” Fëanáro said at last, the hint of a grin in his voice, “is there something I might do for you?”

Ñolofinwë stood paralysed. Fëanáro bent and sniffed at his neck, humming in appreciation when he straightened again and pulled his hand away.

“Do you need something, my Lady?” Fëanáro pressed.

His voice was uncharacteristically tender, and it dawned on Ñolofinwë that his stratagem was actually working. He cleared his throat and said, in his best imitation of a female voice, “since –...since we are the only ones here today I thought we could...entertain each other, my Lord.”

“And how, my Lady?”

“We could talk. Or take a walk. I have n- new books in my quarters, too.”

Fëanáro's lips stretched into a lop-sided smile.

“Very well, but I need to refresh myself first. Would you mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” Ñolofinwë hastily replied, forgetting to modulate his voice.

Fëanáro nodded solemnly and offered him his hand, like somebody asking for a dance. Ñolofinwë laid his own hand on top of it. Fëanáro turned towards the staircase, leading the way, with Ñolofinwë following two steps behind. He was so happy, so taken with the feel of Fëanáro's skin against his, that he forgot he was wearing a skirt. Halfway up the staircase, he caught the long garment with his foot, his hand slipped from Fëanáro's and he fell face-forward. He tried to brace himself, but the impact was harsh nonetheless, and he slipped down a few steps, scraping his knees and arms on their edge. 

Fëanáro's voice rang out in an imprecation above him, and an instant later he was crouching over Ñolofinwë. 

“Are you all right? Have you hit your head?”

Ñolofinwë raised himself on his hands. Tears stung his eyes, and he was dizzy and disoriented, but he managed to shake his head.

Fëanáro very gingerly pulled him to his feet, and inspected him with exceptional care. A small patch of blood peeked among the silver whorls on the left side of the skirt, and the skin of his forearms was reddened and scraped where the flared hem of the blouse had left it bare, but thankfully not cut. Fëanáro huffed in relief, and without any further ado took him into his arms. 

Ñolofinwë let out a squeaky gasp. Fëanáro lifted almost effortlessly, and all of a sudden he was closer to him than he had ever been, pressed against his chest. Fëanáro's skin was clammy from his hammering at the anvil, and his matted hair gave off an acrid smell of charred wood and sweat, yet Ñolofinwë wouldn't have traded any of that for the sweet fragrances of Vána's gardens. Even his pain faded into the background, and he wished the world could have become that winding stair, and that he could have spent the rest of eternity like that, cradled in his brother's arms.

The winding stair ended all too soon, but instead of heading towards the wing where Ñolofinwë's apartment was, Fëanáro veered left and carried him to his own chambers. He didn't stop in the drawing room, nor in the antechamber beyond it, but set him down on a chair in his bedchamber and disappeared into the bathroom, mumbling that he would get ointment and bandages to treat his injuries. 

Ñolofinwë took a deep breath, blinking away the tears that clouded his vision, and looked around. He tried to take in the entire configuration of the room, the layout of the furniture, even the smell of the air in it. The bed was unmade, because Fëanáro had risen after the servants had already left, and sundry items were scattered disorderly here and there, all to Ñolofinwë's delight: it felt much more intimate than sitting in a perfectly tidy room. He had half a mind to just lie down on the bed, pull up his skirt up and offer himself to his brother.

Fëanáro interrupted his reverie, coming back from the bathroom with a small basket where he had gathered everything he needed. He knelt down at Ñolofinwë's feet without a word and hiked his skirt up to his thighs.

Ñolofinwë stiffened, acutely self-conscious because the gesture was too titillatingly close to what he had been picturing in his mind, and at the same disappointed that Fëanáro's attention was entirely devoted to his knee. A cut ran sideways on it, but it wasn't that deep. He was about to protest that it didn't hurt when Fëanáro wrapped his hand under it and lifted it slightly to clean it.

At the first contact of the disinfectant with his wound, Ñolofinwë hissed and squirmed. Fëanáro tightened his hold on his knee in response, holding it still. A moan that had nothing to do with pain escaped Ñolofinwë's lips then, and the heat of Fëanáro's touch tickled up his leg to his cock, followed by Fëanáro's feline gaze.

“...so, why did you dress up like this?” he asked, bringing his face closer Ñolofinwë's leg and looking at the wound intently until he was sure that the broken skin didn't need to be sewn back together.

“I –...” Ñolofinwë stalled. The answer lay there between his legs, and he couldn't imagine why Fëanáro would ask such a pointless question. Fëanáro wasn't the type that needed to hear the obvious. Fëanáro was one for actions. “I want to spend some time with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. I really like you.”

Fëanáro picked up a clean bandage, unwound it and began wrapping it around Ñolofinwë's knee, but his gaze kept flickering up at Ñolofinwë, his eyebrows raised.

Ñolofinwë sighed, and resigned himself to explain further. “I know you like women more. You get along well with Findis, too...and the maids were gossiping. They say there's a woman you love, that the two of you will get married soon.” Ñolofinwë paused, bit on his lower lip then burst out, “I don't like it!”

“You're jealous.” Fëanáro finished wrapping his knee and secured the bandage in place. “You love me. Why?”

Ñolofinwë frowned. “Why? As a child, every time I saw you it was as if the light of the trees had waltzed into my life, blended and sculpted to the fairest of forms. Father would _always_ speak of you. I-...I think I inherited his preference. I never heard him talk about me the way he talks about you. I tried hating you, but I can't.” 

“Well, you _are_ still young.”

“I am no child,” Ñolofinwë retorted. He puffed up his chest and leaned forward. “I'm five-and-forty and I won't become an adult overnight when I turn fifty. Or do you think I am witless, or weak? I love you, brother,” he said, but his voice sounded all too pleading. “I love you, Fëanáro,” he stated again, more forcefully, shuddering at the way his brother's name rolled off his tongue at that moment. His nipples hardened and pressed clearly against the thin silk of the undershirt, making tiny raised points in his blouse. “And I will just prove it to you if you let me. I know you don't like me –”

Fëanáro, who had been listening to his outburst with remarkable patience and a benign air, broke into laughter at that.

Ñolofinwë's mouth fell shut and he sat back again, his shoulder sagging, his hands fisting the folds of the skirt. “Do you really hate me that much?”

Fëanáro turned his head from side to side and his chest soon stopped shaking. “I don't hate you. I never hated _you_ ,” he said with a sigh. “In fact, part of the reason I spend so much time with Findis is because she doesn't look like you.”

Ñolofinwë cocked his head.

“She takes more after your mother, don't you think?”

“She does, I guess,” Ñolofinwë conceded, unsure what Fëanáro was getting at.

“You do look quite comely dressed like this,” Fëanáro said, sliding both his hands up his thighs until he reached his hands.

Ñolofinwë blushed, and instinctively pulled them away. It was but a moment's surprise, a skipped heartbeat. Fëanáro turned his hands palm-upwards, and Ñolofinwë laid his own over them, pressing down on them to feel Fëanáro's coarse skin under his again. Heat passed between their bodies, and there was a spark in Ñolofinwë's mind unlike any he had experienced until then. It took him a sudden intake of breath to realise that it was a caress from Fëanáro's own mind. Fëanáro smiled.

“Well, I still need to take a bath. Would you like to join me?”

Ñolofinwë didn't need to be asked twice. Fëanáro stood up and used his hold on his hands to pull him up too. Ñolofinwë rose as gracefully as his hurt leg allowed. 

“I'm afraid Findis's outfit is now ruined.”

Ñolofinwë shrugged. “She won't even notice it's missing.”

“I will take care of it,” Fëanáro said, letting go of his hands and bringing them to the topmost button of the blouse. “Blood is near impossible to wash out, but I have some experience in attempting it.”

Fëanáro undid each of the buttons and ribbons fastening the blouse, peeling the it off Ñolofinwë and laying it carefully on his bed. When Fëanáro turned to put the skirt away, Ñolofinwë hastily stepped out of his underwear too. He crept behind Fëanáro and the moment he turned threw himself at him, locking his arms behind his neck and drawing him down into a full-mouthed kiss.

Fëanáro flinched but didn't truly try to pull back, letting Ñolofinwë explore his mouth with his tongue for as long as he wished. When they separated, the red of Ñolofinwë's lip-paint was smeared all over Fëanáro's lips too.

Fëanáro's eyes scanned his naked form. Ñolofinwë's body was still soft, but had the imprint of a man's physique, and Ñolofinwë was quite proud of it. “You will grow very tall,” he murmured.

“You love me,” Ñolofinwë said, deciding that sometimes it was indeed necessary to state the obvious.

Fëanáro replied by sweeping him up in his arms again and carrying him to the bathroom. 

He ran the water, getting rid of his own soiled clothing while the bathtub filled up, putting it in a basket which the servant would take away in the morning. 

Ñolofinwë hissed when the warm water licked his skin, but Fëanáro gently supported him until they were both seated in the bathtub. Fëanáro lathered himself, and Ñolofinwë stared at him, his hands in his lap, twitching with the urge to touch. When Fëanáro turned, he seized the sponge from him and washed his back, tracing the contours of that nakedness he had imagined so many times, and was now there for him to touch and re-draw with his hands. He drew the sponge between his shoulder blades, swept it down his spine. He held his breath when his hand dipped underwater and reached Fëanáro's buttocks. Fëanáro gave a soft appreciative grunt and he dared to explore. 

He let go of the sponge and drew both hand up Fëanáro's sides then circled them around Fëanáro's chest and spread his palms over his nipples. Fëanáro's heart was beating as fast as his own, a further confirmation if he still needed one.

“Brother,” he whispered. 

He knelt up and lay his cheek against the top of Fëanáro's head, nuzzling him in silence until Fëanáro sighed his name.

Ñolofinwë grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.

“Take me,” he hissed, landing kisses all over Fëanáro's face, kisses that were inexperienced yet ardent in their own clumsy way. “Make _me_ your first bride.” He dived lower, kissing and nipping at Fëanáro's skin until he came to Fëanáro's left nipple and closed his lips around it. 

He sucked, drawing the nipple into his mouth. Fëanáro gasped and arched forward, giving him even better access to his chest.

Ñolofinwë held onto Fëanáro's arms, pulling and massaging the quickly hardening nub with his lips. He let go of it for a moment to swirl his tongue all around it, then lapped at it, flicking his tongue up and down, and finally mouthed it again, drowsily and dreamily, his nose rubbing against Fëanáro's skin, his eyes closed. Fëanáro now smelled of soap, but his scent was still different from his own, and he inhaled it with much delight. 

Fëanáro had to exert all of his strength to dislodge him from his chest.

“I can't take you now,” he said, drawing him up into one more kiss.

His left hand splashed in the water and Ñolofinwë's cock was suddenly enveloped by solid heat. 

Ñolofinwë followed his lead. He knelt over his legs, ignoring the sting in his knee, and took his cock in both hands. 

“You're so big,” he purred, tentatively feeling the girth of it, and his desire to have it inside himself only grew. 

Fëanáro grinned. He lowered his hand to his balls, cupping them both in his palm and gently rubbing them together. His left hand circled around Ñolofinwë's waist, caressing the small of his back before moving lower and sneaking between his buttocks. He fingered his entrance, slightly softened by water and so very inviting. 

“I will be glad to take you, when we won't risk court coming back while we're in the middle of it.”

“Yes,” breathed Ñolofinwë, “yes,” sliding his hands up and down Fëanáro's cock. “Yes.” 

Fëanáro teased his hole for a while, massaging it and nudging it until his finger snuck inside just a bit. It was enough to make Ñolofinwë buck. Fëanáro's hand travelled up his shaft again, working his foreskin up and down his cockhead and Ñolofinwë tried to do the same to Fëanáro's cock, sliding, brushing, gripping.

His legs began to tremble.

“Ñolofinwë, lower yourself,” Fëanáro said, and as soon as Ñolofinwë all but sat on his thighs he wrapped both their cocks together in his hand, and his finger went deeper up his ass. 

Ñolofinwë tried to buck up into Fëanáro's hand again and grind down on his finger at the same time, but all he accomplished was rocking wildly in his brother's twofold hold. Not that it mattered much.

He came before Fëanáro, gritting his teeth to stifle a scream, arching back while Fëanáro pushed his finger up his ass down to the second knuckle and pressed it against his walls. He was still shaking when Fëanáro's cock in turn pulsated against his, and from narrowed eyes he saw their seed disappear together in the warm water. 

As the tension left his body, he slumped forward in Fëanáro's arms again. 

“Let me stay with you,” he whispered, but it was a demand more than a plea. 

Fëanáro's chuckled softly, his breath now cool against Ñolofinwë's skin. “Don't you know me? Now that I know I can have you, I will _never_ let you go.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gemini](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339239) by [lackluster_wonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackluster_wonder/pseuds/lackluster_wonder)




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